Witcher in the Abyss
by Crestfallen Writer
Summary: Witchers never die in their own beds. It wasn't any different for Geralt either, except instead of embracing sweet non-existence he found himself dragged back - to a land not his own.
1. Chapter 1

oOo

Witchers don't die in their own beds.

Geralt of Rivia, Gwynbleidd, the White Wolf, and a knight of Lyria did not escape the old saying, even with all the experience, talent and titles he held. Their kind took contract after contract, after all, and they all were dangerous – and even the best witchers made mistakes.

And so he left the world, a silver sword in one hand and a potion of Swallow in the other.

Now, Geralt wasn't a man who held any grudges or regrets, so becoming a ghost or specter was unlikely. He doubted anyone would find his body, even – maybe Yennefer, but they were accustomed to being apart for long times, and she wouldn't think much of his absence. No, it was most likely that nature would take its course and his body would lay there until it rotted away. Maybe someone would look for him, find him and his bones and bury him. Yen would light a candle, weep a tear or two, and move on in her life.

Geralt himself could move on and find peace in death.

Or so he had foolishly hoped. It seemed that peace didn't want to find him.

Geralt had died before –the Rivian pogrom of 1268– so he thought he knew what to expect. A void; no thought, no sentience; only non-existence. But waking up in a body of a newborn child? That he did not expect.

But while his body had changed, his mind had not – he still was the same firm, resolute witcher who had faced evil in forms of monsters and humans alike, worked with sorceresses of the highest regard, and fought even the devil himself. That wouldn't change no matter much he seemed like a helpless infant in the beginning of his new life.

When Ciri had talked of different worlds, of places where ships flew in the air and people fought war not with swords and arrows but with lightning and fire, he hadn't given much thought to them. Now he had to, for this world was _different._

There was magic, yes, but of the subtler kind. No sorceresses nor sorcerers around, as far as he could tell. The magic was imbued to old relics, to the air, to some _people_ , even, but it was never present. Asking around the orphanage about sorcery only brought him curious looks, so he didn't bother.

There were monsters, too. But these monsters were nothing like the ones at home. No strigas, leshens, or shaelmaar; no ghouls, alghouls or even ever-present nekkers. No, these creatures were very much not alike those – some of them sounded even fiercer.

"Geralt," called out a voice outside his small room. People rarely entered it without permission anymore, after a moon whistle had accidentally poisoned himself touching his alchemy equipment. He couldn't brew proper witcher potions anymore, but old herbal remedies were universal, it seemed. "We're leaving for the Abyss in a few minutes. Get your gear ready."

The gear being a pickaxe, a rucksack, a helmet and a length of rope. He would've preferred a length of silver with a pinch of quality armor, but the orphanage he was housed in had no funds to buy what he wanted, and the little he earned from peddling his medicine he saved for the future, for some rainy day that would no doubt happen.

And with the Abyss, well. Rainy days were always bound to happen.

What was so alluring about that vast, seemingly endless hole in the ground? Why did people flock towards it like wraiths to a haunted house? And most importantly, why did he feel it whispering to himself?

 _Come down,_ it murmured. _You need to see what lies here. And I'll be here. I'll be waiting. Down here._

 _At the bottom of the Abyss._

Geralt grit his teeth, shaking off the lingering whispers that plagued his mind too often. Being cursed was not a pleasant feeling, never was and never had been. But this one was even more insidious than the others – it was subtle, made him _want_ to enter the Abyss, with all its dangers and monsters, only to go down, down and down until there was nothing left to descend—

And he could see himself doing it. Hell, he already was doing it.

In the end, what else could he do?

"Yeah," he answered to the Leader. "I'll be ready."

oOo

"Have you heard?"

"Of what?"

"The incident in the first layer of the Abyss, of course! A Crimson Splitjaw had flown up-"

"Get outta here. Those things don't fly that high."

"Well this one did, and get this – it comes by a group of unsuspecting red whistles and their teach!"

"…Damn. Why you do you gotta tell me that? Now I lost my appetite."

"Heh, well, you shouldn't. They drove that beast off, that they did. Can you believe it?"

"You're pulling one over me, aren't you? There's no way."

"No way, I swear. Saw the ones who got back myself. Mind, there weren't that many left of them, but…"

"A damn fine feat, that one. How'd they manage that?"

"No idea. But there's word on the streets that – and I'm not lying, I'm just repeating what I was told – it was one guy."

"One guy who came up with a plan?"

"One guy who _drove that fucker away._ "

oOo

Sharp eyes peered at him behind the wooden desk. With the lighting in the room being as dim as it was, the look could even be called intimidating by an average person. Of course, Geralt was not an average person, and so he held the gaze unflinchingly.

"I suppose I should commend you, to begin with," started the orphanage matron after a few seconds. Her eyes never left his. "I've been told your actions resulted in driving off that beast. And as such, you saved quite the amount of lives."

"Thanks."

" _However,_ " continued the woman. "Your actions have also raised questions. Questions I have no answer to. Questions like: How does a ten-year-old, who has never been delving in the Abyss nor has any known experience in fighting against the beasts found there, fight and nearly kill a Crimson Splitjaw?"

Silence reigned for a moment.

Geralt could tell her; tell her of the life he had lived before this one. Being a monster hunter for trade was a good reason for his talents in this new world. But while they could believe him, they could also not – and he wouldn't risk the chance of being deemed a madman on such a small thing.

"I've always been good with animals," he offered instead, breaking eye contact to look outside the window. The sun was setting in the city of Orth.

"Tch." He could feel the matron's glare intensify. She clearly wasn't happy. "Keep your secrets, then. It doesn't matter what you're hiding. Bring profit to the orphanage and I won't stand in your way."

The message was clear. Geralt could understand the orphanage owner's want for money, and didn't judge her for it. Surviving required coin, and he could bring it on the table.

"Can I leave?" he said, inching away from the chair. He had work to do.

The owner raised her hand. "Wait. I heard from Leader Iga that you wanted an actual weapon, rather than a pickaxe, to delve with."

"You heard right," Geralt answered, raising his eyebrow. Generosity was something the matron had little of, and swords weren't the cheapest of weapons.

"Catch." she said, throwing a key at him. He caught it. "When you've done your chores today, go the cellar floor. The key unlocks the first door to the left. You might find something that interests you there."

He nodded. "I'll do that."

"Good," the matron said, and her eyes softened slightly. "I have high hopes for you, you know. We all do, here."

He knew. He knew how the other kids whispered of him in awed tones, or how Leader Iga had lately been praising him in everything he did. In their eyes he was only a red whistle, an absolute beginner, yet he was strong, quick-footed and intelligent. After the failure of a dive, he became somewhat of a hero. And while in his past life he had never cared much for the insults against witcherkind, being treated well in his new life was oddly satisfying.

And, well. They held such high hopes for him, so really…

He didn't want to disappoint them.


	2. Chapter 2

oOo

"Come around, children, come around!" shouted the long-nosed man, a big grin on his face. "It's time for a story you all know, yet you cannot get enough of!"

The tent was filled to the brim with gleeful children. Joy filled the air, and for good reason – it was the Resurrection Festival. A famed Abyss delver had gone for his last dive, to attain unimaginable glory, yet never being able to come back.

"Ahem! It's time for me to begin," said the entertainer, signaling his assistants to dim the lights. The children quieted down in anticipation.

"The last unexplored area in the whole world – the bottomless chasm, Abyss!

Filled with dangers beyond belief, only the bravest enter it."

He shot a smile at the audience. "And as you know, all of us delvers here in Orth are brave."

"There are five kinds of delvers here.

The red whistles! The apprentices, who are destined to become something great!

The blue whistles! The adepts, who know their way around the devilish chasm!

The moon whistles! The teachers, who share their vast knowledge with those who don't have any!

And the black whistles! The experts, who brave countless dangers and environments!"

"But wait," he stopped, raising a questioning eyebrow at the children, who had their eyes glued to the man. "I've forgotten one. What could it be?"

At the question, all the children erupted shouting, everyone wanting to answer. The entertainer took a step back, and started laughing.

"Ga-ha-ha! I see, I see! No doubt of it!

The last delvers are our heroes, those who surpassed all their limits and became something greater – they are the white whistles! The best of us all, they could even be called the conquerors of the Abyss!"

The crowd started in cheers, their noise drowning out that of the entertainers. Yet one white-haired boy stood back, eyes set straight and arms crossed. A voice whispered in his ear,

 _I'll be waiting, Geralt._

oOo

 **The First Layer, Abyss**

Eyes sharp, Geralt walked downwards with a sedate pace. While he was in somewhat of a hurry, rushing forwards helped nobody, especially himself – one wrong step and he'd be plummeting down towards his death. The first layer of the Abyss, where he currently was, wasn't considered as incredibly dangerous as the other layers, but it still had its hazards.

He suddenly heard a distinct screech, as if the beast it came from had read his mind, and he pushed himself towards the rock wall behind him.

 _A thornwing. Solitary hunter, preys on what it considers weak. Three-star danger rating, a serious threat._

The big bird, a grey, fierce creature with wings with poisonous spikes on them, was approaching him with alarming speed. No use in hiding, Geralt pushed himself to his left, drawing out the sword on his back with a smooth motion.

It was not a good sword. Geralt hesitated to even call it a sword – the crossguard was nowhere to be found, the edge being littered with small nicks and breaks. But even the worst of swords were better than no swords at all.

The thornwing apparently thought the same, and its flight came to sudden halt. The bird's easy prey wasn't that easy after all, and it seemed to have second thoughts.

"C'mon down," growled Geralt. Suppressing a brief ting of annoyance due to inability to growl properly anymore, thanks to his newfound child-ness, he gave the blade an experimental twirl. He still had it, even if his muscles could use some work.

Instead of doing so, the thornwing gave one final screech and took off downwards. Geralt chanced a look off the cliff to see where it went, but soon enough the mists in the middle of the layer obscured the form of the bird.

"Good," he muttered to himself. While taking down a three-star beast was most likely in his capabilities, he hadn't especially wanted to do so – firstly because he wouldn't have been paid for it, and secondly because he had something else to do. A contract, in fact.

Now, in the city of Orth contracts weren't actually a thing. The monsters in the Abyss never actually _left_ the Abyss, so there wasn't any incentive for hunting down them, apart from what one could salvage from them. For instance, thornwings weren't hunted because they were a threat, but because the poison they had inside their thorns could be used for antidotes.

But occasionally the Delvers Guild –the only official way people could become Abyss delvers, and the organization which Geralt and his orphanage was a part of– asked whistles of all statures to do tasks for them. They didn't pay, but the rumor was that people who did all sorts of odd jobs for the Guild got promoted faster.

And so, when asked, Geralt accepted. It didn't have any downsides to him.

The contract was simple, this time. A group of red whistles were missing – they hadn't been seen for twelve hours, by the time he had accepted the request to locate them. They were last known to be some 150 meters deep. He was told to find them, determine if they were still alive, and if possible, help them up to the surface.

Sheathing his sword and checking the depth meter - _138 meters_ -, the young-yet-old red whistle started trodding down the path once more.

It didn't take long to find clues. He soon arrived in a small clearing, with no cover other than a few bushes and a straight view towards middle of the Abyss. A prime spot for feeding birds of prey. A few pieces of fabric lying around, alongside some feathers.

 _Thornwing feathers._ It seemed his contract involved those damn birds, after all.

While Geralt had no witcher senses anymore, he trusted his gut when it said that something had happened here. Crouching down next to the cloth pieces on the ground, he examined them as well as he could.

"Dried blood," he noted quietly, old habits kicking in. "Two, maybe three hours old."

No doubt whatever had found the red whistles there had injured them on some level. Of course, it could be the blood of someone else – the path he was currently on was told to be fairly often used.

In any case, there was too little to go on. No prints, for thornwings flew, and no marks of movement nearby; he couldn't track them down from here. No, what he needed was different. He needed bait.

Taking off his backpack, Geralt took out some of his supplies. Chunks of root vegetables, some hammerbeak meat, and spices from faraway lands to top it off – there laid the perfect recipe for a filling lunch, and by happenstance, a perfect bait for carnivorous birds.

He lighted up a simmering fire, and mixed the ingredients in. Now he only needed to wait, and so he did, settling down on a meditative pose.

If Geralt was being honest, he truly enjoyed his solo-dives down into the Abyss. It reminded him of the times when he was still a witcher, surrounded by wild and untamed nature. Orth as a city was fairly pleasant; no rampant racism, totalitarian regime nor any ongoing conflict. Yet it still was a _city_ – a hustling hub of trade and home to a vast mass of people. He had never been a city person, and the Abyss brought some semblance of sanity and nostalgia to his life with its dangers and mysteries.

They were simpler times, his times as a witcher, when he only had to deal with cunning sorceresses and their plots, overthrowing tyrant kings, and slaying minor gods in addition to taking the occasional monster contract.

Uh, well. Maybe not simpler, but more familiar.

His musings were suddenly interrupted, when a familiar screech filled the clearing. The thornwing had arrived.

Geralt quickly drew his sword, taking a guard position. Unlike last time, the bird wasn't slowing down – maybe it had had enough him, or maybe it thought it had a chance against him. It didn't matter.

 _It's going to get cut down anyways,_ he thought, and swung. And missed by a hair, the beast moving its large body surprisingly quickly out of the way.

It didn't stop its assault there – it turned around mid-air, and tried to swipe Geralt with its unfolded wing. Trying to wound him with its poison, as it could paralyze the victim in mere minutes.

Geralt managed to bring up his sword just in time to parry the blow, drawing blood and eliciting a shriek from the creature. It's attack on him wasn't in vain, though, since the force behind its blow was strong enough to fling the young red whistle backwards.

He barely managed to roll away from the thornwing's follow-up, and pushed himself off the ground as fast as he could. The moment he was on his two feet, he was under assault again – this time by fierce and quick pecks that no doubt could pierce his inadequate leather armor.

 _A beast having a three-star level danger rating is nothing to laugh at,_ he thought, weaving around to dodge the birds attacks. _I got lucky with the Crimson Splitjaw. I won't get lucky here._

With that thought, the thornwing tried its luck with another swipe of a wing. A few quick steps backwards, and Geralt was out of its reach. What the bird didn't clearly except was him to close the distance immediately afterwards, going in for a lunging attack.

Showing impressive agility once again, it twisted around, avoiding a fatal blow to its neck. But this time the witcher reborn was ready for such prowess, and swung downwards with his sword, gouging a deep, red wound on its body.

The beast shrieked in pain, thrashing its wings around. Geralt was forced to back off, and look for an opening with care – a creature driven to its limits was much more dangerous than one which wasn't.

He just had to look for an opportunity to present itself. The bird would tire itself with its wild attacks, and then he could finish it.

Soon enough the bird started to lessen its flailing, hoping for a breather. Geralt wasn't about to give him any, and he jumped forward with a downward slash. Which the beast dodged, of course, and took air.

And started to fly away towards the cliffside.

"Come back here!" the witcher-delver shouted, taking after it in a sprint. The bird was already over the side, flying towards its nest down below, but Geralt was not about to let the monster fly away, leaving his contract unsolved - who knew how many it had killed?

And so he jumped after it. Not the first time he'd done something like this.

Wind whipped his hair, and he was swiftly approaching his target. He held his sword two-handed, as steady as he could. And with a sound a steel striking flesh, he struck. The sword pierced through the thornwing's abdomen, eliciting another cry from it, and together they fell towards the grounds below.

Then they crashed.


End file.
